


What happens at Burning Man ...

by wordsinthedark (VanScritto)



Series: What happens at Burning Man ... [1]
Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Burning Man, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 22:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19778104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanScritto/pseuds/wordsinthedark
Summary: "Right," Jean-Eric says and pulls out of the embrace to look at Carl for a long moment. The sunglasses make it impossible to tell what he's thinking but then he's grinning. "Tell me everything.""Everything?""Everything. And you can start by explaining why you have glitter on your back."





	What happens at Burning Man ...

**Author's Note:**

> There's a picture of Carl at Burning Man with green body glitter paint all over his torso and it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

The flight back is hazy.

Thirteen hours including the overlay and Carl still feels like he just stepped out of the desert when his feet touch Parisian soil. The walk through customs is annoying, all the lights and the people and the whispers giving him goosebumps.

Burning Man is still running through his veins.

He walks into a restroom before looking for his luggage — because, let's be real, the luggage is the thing that takes the longest anyway — and outwardly, he looks as always. Bright grin, stubble on his cheeks, crisp button down. He hasn't taken off the sunglasses inside the building, except to show his face to the person checking his passport, and he's pretty sure that adds to his appeal. He's charming, albeit a little tired.

But on the inside, he is burning. The cotton of the shirt rasping over his skin with each movement. He loves it, truly. Burning Man is an experience and he knows he has enough photos in his bag that he can make an exhibit out of it. Bring the experience to Paris, maybe, even if he already knows it's not going to work. Looking at pictures is not the same as feeling the sand on his scalp or the heat on his back or everything he put into his mouth in the past week.

The jitters are probably an aftermath.

Jean-Eric is waiting for him by the Arrivals, a wide grin on his face and his arms open. He, too, is wearing sunglasses.

"Welcome home, stranger," Jean-Eric says and Carl steps easily into the hug. The arms around him feel hot, pressing fabric to his body and Carl is all too aware of Jean-Eric's fingers patting his shoulders.

"Good to be home," he murmurs and draws in a breath.

In the desert, everything smells like dry heat and sand and sweat. It's an intoxicating combination when you're around it for long enough. It seeps into your nostrils and Carl feels like he can still smell it even now, an ocean away. But when in Jean-Eric's hug, taking a breath has the effect of peppermint to a stuffy nose. Jean-Eric smells of crisp laundry and butter, of all things, and it makes Carl's stomach grumble.

"Shit, old man, did they not feed you on the plane?"

"Of course, they did. But you know me," Carl says and he has half a mind to add _I am always hungry for more_ with a wink, and catches himself just in time. This isn't Black Rock, after all.

"Right," Jean-Eric says and pulls out of the embrace to look at Carl for a long moment. The sunglasses make it impossible to tell what he's thinking but then he's grinning. "Tell me everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything. And you can start by explaining why you have glitter on your back."

***

There's a croissant shoved into Carl's hands and it feels as buttery as Jean-Eric smells. The confined space of the car amplifies the aroma, making Carl's mouth water and fogging his brain with different ways to satiate his hunger.

This isn't the first Burning Man he's been to and he knows it'll take a few days for the fever to burn through him. It's such a different atmosphere, everything and anything is possible as long as you ask for it, adrenaline is coursing through his bloodstream all day, every day. It's maybe not unlike a race, he realizes suddenly, with the exhaustion crushing in belatedly. Not exactly on the day the race ends, but a couple of days later, when the body has had time to realize that this is _normal_ again.

Carl doesn't feel normal now.

But it doesn't matter, because Jean-Eric is sitting in the driver's seat navigating Paris traffic and telling him to finally eat that croissant, because it's _so good, it needs to be devoured immediately_.

Carl takes a bite to hide his grin.

***

"This isn't my apartment," Carl argues half-heartedly around the last bite of the second croissant.

"Well noticed," Jean-Eric quips. "Good to know you still have your wits about you."

He unlocks his apartment and toes his shoes off in the entryway, letting them fall carelessly to the ground. Carl follows his form with his eyes, the shape of Jean-Eric almost overly sharp in the rest of the blurry environment. It's good he ate something, he thinks now, he can't actually remember if he ate any of the food on the plane.

By now, the plane ride feels a hundred years ago.

Jean-Eric returns. And pouts. It's adorable because Carl has no idea what prompted it.

"Okay, take off your shoes," Jean-Eric says patiently, as if to a child. He steps around Carl and closes the apartment door behind him that Carl hadn't even noticed was still open.

"I want to sleep," Carl mumbles.

"You _need_ a shower, though."

"I _need_ sleep."

"You're getting glitter all over the sheets. Also, if you're asleep, you can't talk. And I still want to know everything."

Unceremoniously, Jean-Eric kicks Carl's luggage to the side, then grabs his hand and drags him into the bathroom. The shower is already running, water getting hot, steaming up the small space and making Carl's scalp itch.

There's probably still sand in his hair.

"Okay, now, tell me." Jean-Eric closes the bathroom door and then sits down on the closed toilet lid, one leg over the other. He looks like a kid the night before Christmas and Carl suddenly has the urge to kiss him and stroke his hair. He doesn't, of course, because this isn't Burning Man where you can just smooch whomever you like.

"What do you want to know?" he asks instead and slowly starts to unbutton his shirt. How the fuck did he get this thing on before the flight? It looks crisp and all the buttons are done correctly, but the way he's struggling now, it's a miracle he managed to do them up in the first place. The buttons seem awfully small for his fingers.

"Christ, are you serious?" Jean-Eric laughs and stands up, pats at Carl's hands and starts undoing the buttons. He's so fast, too, brushing the cotton off Carl's shoulders. He laughs again, then, the sound too loud in the small room, and holds up the shirt for Carl to inspect. "See what I mean?"

Carl does see. On the inside of his shirt, there are streaks of the green shimmering paint he was wearing for a week, and other streaks that look an awful lot like desert dust. That shit gets _everywhere_.

"I showered in Reno," Carl answers weakly, but Jean-Eric is already distracted, letting the shirt fall to the floor.

"I figured. You'd smell worse if you hadn't. Pants." He's pointing to the belt of Carl's jeans and luckily Carl manages to unbuckle it. "So, did you take any good pictures?"

Jean-Eric sits down again on the toilet and watches Carl's movements with attentive eyes. Probably checking to see if he needs any more help undressing, Carl muses and can't help the grin that steals onto his face.

"I'm going to take that as a yes. And the way you're smiling, they're probably dirty."

Carl manages to step out of his jeans and right about now would be a good time for Jean-Eric to leave the bathroom, but he doesn't seem to have the same idea. _Racing drivers_ , Carl thinks. They have no concept of personal boundaries. In the paddock there isn't a lot of privacy, and yes, maybe that means they see the other drivers get changed on the regular, but Carl and Jean-Eric haven't really … Alright, what the hell.

With one swift motion, he pushes his underwear to the floor and steps under the hot stream. The initial onslaught of needles on his skin fades quickly, but as soon as it does, Carl realizes just how tired he is. His limbs are heavy.

"Is there really an orgy tent?", comes Jean-Eric's voice from the other side of the shower curtain.

Of course he'd ask about that. And, of course, it would cause a reaction, albeit just a physical one: flashes before Carl's inner eye, of limbs and skin and bodies, his dick suddenly half-hard. Shit, he wants to jerk off. The water doesn't seem like an attack on his body now, it flows over his skin like a caress and brings back quite a few memories of other caresses over the past week.

There is an orgy tent.

"What happens at Burning Man …," Carl says and his voice sounds just as exhausted as he feels. Maybe he can actually lie down here and sleep in the shower? No, probably a bad idea.

"Right. So, pictures." The rustling noise is the only warning Carl gets before the shower curtain is abruptly drawn back. "Are you even …" Jean-Eric's voice trails off and Carl can't really tell if it's because he notices Carl's hand loosely cupping his erection. "Man, you're not even washing that shit off."

"I'm tired," Carl complains.

"Right, I see how _tired_ you are. Whatever."

Carl expects Jean-Eric to take the cue and just leave him in peace so Carl can get off and go to sleep, but that doesn't happen. It takes Carl a few moments to realize what Jean-Eric is doing and by then, he's already naked himself, grabbing a washcloth and stepping into the shower behind him.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm washing your back, since you seem to be unable to," Jean-Eric just says. "And maybe now you can tell me about everything else. While I do all the work for you."

Carl isn't sure if Jean-Eric is being purposely obtuse right now, or if he really doesn't notice how _not in the mood_ for this Carl is right now. For one thing, he is about to drop into a million year nap as soon as his head hits the pillow and for another, he _has his hand around his dick trying to jerk off_. He has half a mind to finally tell Jean-Eric to just fuck off, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a moan, because Jean-Eric is rubbing the washcloth over his skin and it feels otherworldly.

Another memory of another pair of hands last week. Carl's hands on a pair of hips, thrusting relentlessly into _someone_ and then someone else's hands on his back, his shoulders, in his hair.

His dick jerks.

"I took photos," Carl grits out, but it ends on another moan he can't suppress.

"You're a little sunburnt," Jean-Eric murmurs. "Didn't use any sunscreen?"

"Didn't always have someone to apply it," Carl answers, but it's a lie. He doesn't know why he lies, really, because Jean-Eric is in the shower with him now while he's trying to subtly-maybe-not touch himself, so telling him that he had lots of sex with a whole bunch of people last week can't possibly make this weirder.

"Right, because you were all alone in the desert, weren't you?" Jean-Eric giggles, the washcloth moving lower on Carl's body. "Seriously, you have that glitter _everywhere_." One of Jean-Eric's hand snakes around Carl's middle to hold him in place while he rubs at his lower back. Presumably to get the paint off and not to make Carl's nerve endings go crazy. The hand on Carl's stomach is dangerously low, too, unmistakably so.

For a moment, Jean-Eric is actually quiet, simply attending to Carl's back in soothing circle motions and it's easy to get swept away in the sensations of it. So easy, in fact, that Carl forgets that it's Jean-Eric standing behind him, someone who maybe shouldn't be in a shower with him in the first place. There's too much there, between them, too many shared experiences, too many ups and downs. Carl has been with Jean-Eric through the lowest of lows and they came out still friends, still manager and star driver.

Jean-Eric isn't just some stranger in a desert.

"So," he hears Jean-Eric's voice startlingly close to his ear, "did you fuck anyone at Burning Man?"

Carl groans, both because of the audacity of the question and the thought of it. He grips his dick tighter, tries to inconspicuously stroke himself, but Jean-Eric giggles at the motion and so, of course, it didn't go unnoticed. "I'm going to take that as a yes."

More soothing circles with the washcloth and suddenly, the cloth is gone and it's just Jean-Eric's fingers instead, circling the skin of Carl's lower back. And then, over his ass.

"Was it a woman?", Jean-Eric asks, "Or a man?" And then, after a beat of silence from Carl, "Or both?"

It's infuriatingly intoxicating, the warm water on Carl's skin, Jean-Eric's hands and through it all, Carl can feel his breath, so close to his neck, ghosting over all the little spots he knows are probably bruised.

"Listen," Carl starts, and it takes all of his mental strength to pull himself out of it, "what happens at Burning Man stays at Burning Man."

"Except the glitter." Suddenly, Jean-Eric's lips are on Carl's skin, a gentle pressure. "And the souvenirs." The hand on Carl's stomach dips lower then and this is definitely the last moment for Carl to put a stop to this.

"No, Jev," he pushes himself off the wall, which only serves to bring him closer to Jean-Eric's naked body and, _oh Jean-Eric seems quite happy to be there_. "You should really go, maybe." The last word is added by some muddled voice in his brain he doesn't recognize. "I mean, if you don't want—"

"But I do want." Jean-Eric's voice is quiet, but firm. He presses closer to Carl's back, his very hard dick fitting between Carl's asscheeks. He kisses Carl's shoulder again, on a different patch than before and even though Carl hasn't checked himself in the mirror the last time, he's pretty sure that there are marks on his skin that Jean-Eric is now tracing. "I've been thinking about it for a week now, you know. About what you do, the art, the photographs, the parties. The people."

"I am telling you—" Jean-Eric is rutting against Carl's back now, or maybe that's the comedown and the tiredness of Carl's bones.

"Yeah, what happens at Burning Man, I get it." There is a little gasp when Carl moves back into Jean-Eric's movement.

 _We're not at Burning Man_ , Carl wants to object, but maybe they are. He pushes back again, a little harder, and manages to turn around in the small space Jean-Eric has left him with. When Carl looks at him, he drops his gaze to the shower floor, as if all of a sudden, being seen — being _caught_ — has broken Jean-Eric's self-confidence.

There's a look of shame that crosses his face that Carl has seen one too many times in the past and he hates himself for having put it there.

"Hey," he says and it comes out much calmer than he feels. He reaches out and cups Jean-Eric's chin, pulls it up so Jean-Eric is facing him again. "You have ten seconds to get out of this shower. Seriously. If you don't, we're crossing that line."

There's a look of _something_ crossing Jean-Eric's face and it looks like defiance to Carl. He is tempted to fuck these ten seconds and just kiss Jean-Eric right then, but where would be the fun in that? Watching Jean-Eric struggle to remain his composure, to stay calm despite all the different emotions playing out in his eyes, is better than anything Carl has seen all week. It is worth waiting and counting in his head.

He gets to three before Jean-Eric crushes his mouth to his.

They are close enough in height for their bodies to align almost perfectly and it's easy for Carl to pour himself into the kiss. As bold as Jean-Eric was in starting this, he seems timid now, unsure, his lips slightly open as if offering Carl all the power. And Carl loves power. He loves being the one to mold his sexual encounters, loves being proactive and making his partner come apart. He _could_ do this now, as well, he'd have Jean-Eric sobbing his name in no time, he knows it.

But he doesn't want to.

It'd be over too fast if it were up to Carl, as tired and fucked out as he is right now. He wants to come and if Jean-Eric weren't here, this would be a quick few strokes and washing his cum down the drain. But Jean-Eric _is_ here and he's touching Carl and kissing him and pressing his erection into the tight space between their bodies.

"What do you want?", Carl whispers against Jean-Eric's mouth and traces his stubble with his tongue.

"Tell me," Jean-Eric whispers back, "tell me about them."

It surprises Carl that Jean-Eric is still going on about this. Somehow, he'd thought this line of questioning was part of the plan to rile _him_ up. But … He can't help but grin, kissing his way across Jean-Eric's cheek to his ear.

"You really want to know about the people I fucked?"

Jean-Eric nods, kisses Carl's neck where he can reach him. One of his hands moves around Carl's back and lower, cupping his ass. "Were any of them … men?" The last word is so quiet that Carl thinks maybe he misheard, but it's the only word that makes sense in the context. He pulls back just enough to be able to look at Jean-Eric, who once again averts his gaze and focuses on Carl's chest. He also focuses on rutting against Carl's hip, which is lovely, but far too distracting. The question surprises Carl, because he never made a secret of his bisexuality and he's pretty sure that Jean-Eric has seen him take home the odd male conquest or two.

"Some of them," Carl says. "You want to know what I did with them?" Jean-Eric nods. "You seem to have a lot of thoughts about this. How about you tell me what _you think_ I did with them."

Jean-Eric bites his lip, his eyes roaming everywhere except for Carl's face. It's sort of adorable, but also not the point. Carl grabs for Jean-Eric's chin again and pulls it up. When he does, he's met with _that look_ , as if Jean-Eric didn't quite think that far ahead. And normally, Carl would have a field day with this. He'd drag every single fantasy from Jean-Eric's mind, would reward him for every dirty word. But exhaustion is a real thing and so is Jean-Eric rutting against him and creating friction on his dick in the process. He's really glad right now that Jean-Eric invested in one of those shower mats or they'd have both fallen and broken a few bones already.

"I fucked one," Carl says casually, then reaches between them to grab Jean-Eric's dick. "Sucked his dick, too, afterwards."

Jean-Eric shudders at the words and Carl regrets not bringing his luggage into the bathroom. He still has a half-empty bottle of lube in a side pocket as well as some condoms, but stepping out of this shower now is not an option. They're going to have to make do with what they have.

Carl kisses Jean-Eric, and this time, he takes the control Jean-Eric so willingly gives. This kiss is not a gentle exploration, it's foreplay, a promise of what's to come. It also has Jean-Eric melting into Carl, moaning into his mouth, bucking his dick into Carl's lazy strokes. Jean-Eric lets himself be pushed backwards, against the tiled wall.

"Yes, please," Jean-Eric groans as Carl strokes over the head of his dick, going a little bit faster, before stopping. The discontent whine out of Jean-Eric's mouth is so worth it.

"Turn around," Carl says and this time, his voice is no longer calm. Jean-Eric does as he's told, bracing his arms against the tile, mirroring Carl's position earlier. "Close your legs. As much as I would love to fuck you …", another whine from Jean-Eric, "…it's not happening today." _And maybe never_ , he doesn't add, and puts both hands on Jean-Eric's hips. It hits him now, how slim Jean-Eric is, how breakable he seems despite all the sinewy muscle of his body. Carl can feel the bones of his hips underneath his hands and the ribs above as he moves a hand upwards to Jean-Eric's chest. A sudden fondness overcomes Carl and the ridiculous thought that this is _it_ , the one and only time he'll be allowed to do this and that he wants to do this _right_.

It's just his luck that this happens when there's a real chance his muscles are going into hibernation at any moment and prolonging this is not an option. He pushes his own very hard dick into the tight space between Jean-Eric's thighs, just underneath his ass, the water serving as just enough lubricant to not make it uncomfortable. Carl presses his entire body into Jean-Eric's back, seeking all the friction he can get as he sets a steady rhythm.

Jean-Eric lets out a moan that is almost a sob when Carl picks up speed, fucks between Jean-Eric's legs and hits his balls with the tip of his dick. Both of Jean-Eric's hands are stilled glued to the shower wall, apparently not daring to stroke himself to orgasm. Or maybe he's hoping for that blowjob that Carl can't possibly manage today. If he gets on his knees, he's never getting up again, even if the thought of Jean-Eric's dick in his mouth is enticing.

"Touch yourself", Carl instructs instead, one hand gripping Jean-Eric's hip and the other reaching higher, loosely wrapping around his throat. Jean-Eric is good at following instructions, mirroring the pace Carl sets with his own hand.

The hitched breaths resound from the tiles, almost hypnotizing to Carl's ears. He buries his face into Jean-Eric's neck, kisses and bites the skin there, some primal part in him wanting to _mark_ Jean-Eric the way he himself had been marked by others.

 _Souvenirs_ , was what Jean-Eric had called the bruises and Carl wants him to have souvenirs from this, too.

It doesn't take long for either of them to come, French curses spilling out of Jean-Eric's mouth, the relief of the orgasm spreading through Carl's limbs slowly. He rests his head against Jean-Eric's shoulder, pulling back just to free his now oversensitive dick.

It's Jean-Eric who moves first, turning around in the embrace, a satisfied glimmer in his eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, opening his mouth, but then seemingly thinking better of it. Instead, he kisses Carl, no longer timid, but slowly and deeply, as if he wants to commit this to memory. Carl doesn't even notice being walked backwards until the water hits his skin again, the temperature suddenly feeling awfully cold against the heat of his body. He closes his eyes and hisses at the sensation.

From somewhere, Jean-Eric produces the washcloth again, rubbing it gently over Carl's chest.

"There," he then says, the word impossibly loud, shaking Carl from his dreamlike state. When Carl opens his eyes, the playful glimmer is gone from Jean-Eric's face. Instead, he looks … almost methodical in the way he lets his eyes roam over Carl's body. He reaches up once more, brushing the washcloth over Carl's chest as if to wash the last of the paint away. "All done."

He steps backwards and for one second Carl feels compelled to say something, make Jean-Eric stay, but then the moment passes and it's a ridiculous thought anyway, what with the water already turning cold. Jean-Eric steps out of the shower swiftly and Carl can only watch as he throws a towel around his hips.

"I've done up the guest bedroom for you," Jean-Eric says, looking in the mirror and shaking out the water from his hair. And then he leaves, without looking at Carl, and closes the bathroom door behind himself.

Carl catches a glimpse of the washcloth on the floor of the shower, grabs it and roughly wipes the traces of cum off the tiles. When he falls into the bed a few minutes later, skin still wet from the shower and the sheets smelling of Jean-Eric, sleep takes him immediately, sending him dreams of colors, glitter and sand.


End file.
